"Oh, yes," he grinned. "Outside the fact that you’re coming in, you can go as far as you like. Salmon and Byrd!" he exclaimed suddenly. "How’s that for a firm name? By gosh!—There’s genius in it! May have been that which was driving me to you. I never go wrong. Salmon and Byrd—Gad! It’s so good it scares me!" "Salmon and Byrd," I repeated after him mechanically. "The _menu_ strikes me as incomplete for a _viveur_ like you. Add a little shrimp salad—or at least an artichoke." He grinned but he would none of my flippancy. "No, no," he wagged his head. "None of that. Don’t spoil a fine thing. It’s—what do they call it—sacrilege. A good firm name—it’s half the battle. By George! This has been a day’s work for me. I didn’t know it was going to be so rich. We ought to have a dinner on it at the Knickerbocker—or Claridge’s. What d’you say?" In a flash I saw the vista of Fred’s life spread out before me—noise and laughter, ventripotent bouts with costly dishes in expensive places, tinkling glasses—the world of money-making which consists as much in riotous expenditure as in half-jocund half-fanatical getting. It was to this world that Fred was inviting me. "There will be supper at six o’clock, if you care to stay," I suggested mildly. "No-no, thanks," said Fred reflectively. "I’d like to. But somehow not to-night. I couldn’t. Better come along with me. And we’ll work out details." I resisted his urging, however, and he left me with this Parthian arrow: "Think it over as much as you like, Randolph, my boy. But it’s a go. Nothing you can say against it will hold a candle to the reasons in favor. The firm name alone is worth a hundred thousand dollars. Consider it settled. Never felt so sure of anything in all my life. So long, my boy. You’ll hear from me." He did not even turn his head when he heard my burst of almost hysterical laughter as he was closing the door. Always heretofore I had counted myself, how humble and insignificant soever, as of the priesthood in the temple of fine things. It was abasing to think that Fred had claimed me for the money-changers. Never again do I wish to experience the martyred minutes of anguish that I have passed through during the last twenty-four hours. For some reason that none can explain Jimmie suddenly came down with a fever. That bright little whorl of life all at once looked white, refused his food with the pallid pitiful smile of an octogenarian and, in a twinkling it seemed, his cheeks were burning, his eyes glittered dryly and his lips were parched. Called to his bedside, I leaned over him and the air about me seemed to darken. Laura’s child was, I believed, dangerously ill. The heart within me turned leaden and even Griselda displayed alarm. Then and there I vowed inwardly that no strangers should have the care of this child if he recovered, so long as I could care for him myself.